


Ambush

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Crowley gets hurt and it's not super graphic but i'd rather warn than not, First Kiss, M/M, Other, Post-Apocalypse, even angels make stupid decisions, there is some description of wounds, this is a very weird collection of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 21:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are having a lovely afternoon in St James' Park when they're suddenly surrounded by angels.Please note that there is a moderately detailed description of the effects of a holy blade on a demon, so proceed with caution.





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> I've been tinkering with this for a while and I'm not _quite_ happy with it, but I think that's just from staring at it for too long, so hopefully you'll enjoy it.

**Now: 2 weeks after the apocalypse that wasn’t, about 3pm**

Crowley is surrounded. They both are; there are angels and even archangels in every direction, and Crowley’s first thought is to try to defend Aziraphale against as many of them as possible. They’re not taking him back, they’re not forcing him into Hellfire for real this time. They have to get out of here.

He turns to Aziraphale, to tell him to flee, to beg him to _ do something _as Aziraphale had once demanded of him at the airbase, because he’s terrified that if he doesn’t then Aziraphale will never speak to him again, he will never be able to speak to him again…

He turns to Aziraphale, but the words never come out, because Aziraphale is looking at him with a strange, cold expression that doesn’t suit him, and he is drawing a holy sword.

* * *

**Hours earlier**

Aziraphale hasn’t been in Heaven since the apocalypse didn’t happen - although, of course, the assembled archangels absolutely think he has. If they didn’t believe that, none of this would work.

“So I want your guarantee that you won’t come after Crowley, either,” he finishes anxiously, “and then we’ll call it even.”

“Now, Aziraphale, be reasonable.” Michael is speaking for the archangels, on this occasion; Aziraphale suspects that Gabriel is too afraid of him. “We’ve promised to leave you alone, but the demon Crowley is- well, he’s a demon. He can’t be trusted. What if he’s just waiting to attack you?”

“He wouldn’t attack me to save his life-”

“Well, then. How about we leave him alone… if you can prove it.”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale has made a mistake, somewhere; he can see it in the glint in Michael’s eyes.

“Prove that he won’t attack you to save his own life. We’ll issue you a Heavenly sword, and you can attack him. If you’re right, he won’t fight back. But if he does, Aziraphale, if he lifts so much as a finger to hold you off, you’re to finish the job. Or we will.”

“What-?”

“Not a word to him, or the deal’s off. This is what you wanted, Aziraphale. We’re promising to leave him alone. _ If _ you’re right.”

“Then- I-”

“Unless, of course, you think he _ is _a threat to Heaven.”

“No, I-”

“Well, then. We’ll meet you in a few hours, get him good and surrounded, somewhere exposed. And then you can kill him.”

“I won’t-”

“Figuratively speaking,” Michael amends, and she hands over a sword. For a moment, Aziraphale is tempted to see what a holy sword might do to an archangel, but that would do nothing to protect Crowley.

“Fine. St James’ Park, three hours.”

* * *

**Now**

Angels will always have the advantage over demons - not because they are good, and good always triumphs over evil, but because they are _ holy_, and holy _ burns_. Crowley can feel the heat of the sword in Aziraphale’s hand from here, and it’s still a metre from his throat. That gap is beginning to close right before his eyes, though, the searing sensation ever more painful, and there’s nowhere for Crowley to go. Angels block his escape in every direction, and it’s not even as if he could burrow down into Hell if he had time - he’s not welcome there, either. He has given it all up, given everything he had to be on his own side with Aziraphale, and now it seems that’s not what Aziraphale wants after all.

He must be back with Heaven. This is all too coordinated, the sudden appearance of what looks like half the Host can’t be a coincidence. Aziraphale has looked at his options - has looked at _ Crowley _ \- and decided that this is the only way forwards.

The sword stops, a scant inch from his throat, and Crowley is sure the skin there must be blistering. He keeps his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s for just a few seconds longer, wishing he could express himself more clearly, but his sunglasses are in the way. That’s probably better; it’ll be easier for Aziraphale, if he can’t see his eyes. He doesn’t want to die, but if he’s going to - and it’s pretty clear that this is the end for Anthony J. Crowley - he doesn’t want to leave Aziraphale with guilt.

“Angel,” he whispers, and the word reminds him of what Aziraphale has almost lost, what he is trying to regain. Crowley wouldn’t want to be an angel again if God Herself got down on her knees and begged him, but it’s always suited Aziraphale. Without Heaven, he would only have Crowley, and Crowley isn’t good enough. He swallows hard, feels his adam’s apple brush against the point of the holy blade with the movement. He leans back, just a fraction, afraid to risk a nick as he speaks. He doubts Heaven will take Aziraphale back if the demon he’s supposed to be slaying destroys _ himself _ by accident. “Angel, it’s all right. ‘S all been a wile, right? I’m a demon, I’m _ made _ of wiles. You see one of those… you see _ me_…”

He takes one last look at Aziraphale’s face, cold and menacing, and then closes his eyes to imagine a happier time. _ Temptation accomplished_, Aziraphale had said, and he’d given a little wiggle, and they’d gone to the Ritz and he’d smiled, so gently, so softly that Crowley had felt soft inside, that Crowley had _ believed _they could have the world.

“You thwart,” he mumbles, helplessly, and waits for the fatal blow.

* * *

Aziraphale nearly discorporates out of sheer panic when he sees the point of the blade press into Crowley’s throat, just a fraction, barely making a depression in the skin. He’s not sure if the point was particularly sharp to begin with, but he blunts it further with a miracle Crowley won’t even notice and pulls it back a fraction of an inch. He knew Crowley wouldn’t fight back; he didn’t expect _ this _ \- no argument, no entreaties to remember their friendship, the times they’ve shared over the centuries, just acceptance. Resignation. Crowley is giving up.

How dare he give up? Aziraphale would be lost without him, Aziraphale is doing all this because he couldn’t _ bear _ to be without him, and Crowley would just lay down his life at his feet and send him crawling back to Heaven? Oh. _ Oh. _Crowley thinks that’s what he wants - of course he does, with the Host assembled and Aziraphale’s blade at his throat - he thinks Aziraphale wants Heaven back and he’s prepared to go to his ultimate destruction if it will give him that. Crowley has always been a spectacularly bad demon; selfless, and kind, and loving.

“You thwart,” Crowley mumbles, eyes closed, and Aziraphale’s blade is right against his throat again, now. He looks to Michael, and she indicates that the edge of the blade is sharper than the point, that he should press it to Crowley’s throat to really test his resolve. Aziraphale obeys, and draws the sword back in a hurry as Crowley’s skin sizzles beneath the metal. _ Holy sword. Pay attention, Aziraphale. _ He returns to his earlier position, the point of it inches from Crowley’s throat as he gasps for breath, but the demon only drops to his knees and waits. “You thwart,” he rasps again, as if Aziraphale has forgotten his lines in a play. _ The Death of A Demon_, or something. But he’s got the wrong script.

“I think I’ve made my point, don’t you, Michael?”

“Well-” Something in the Principality’s expression must change her mind; she was not present for his execution, but she must feel something of Gabriel’s fear now, because she alters course abruptly. “Yes, I suppose so. The Demon Crowley is safe from Heaven’s wrath for all eternity. You’re right, he’s not a threat.”

“Oh, not to me,” Aziraphale tells her imperiously, “and not to those under my protection. You’d better stay on my good side, Michael - all of you - and that means leaving him alone.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you say. Back to Heaven, everyone,” Michael tells the assembled Host, “I think Aziraphale has some explaining to do for his neutered demon.”

Before Aziraphale can even snarl at her - goodness, he _ has _ spent too much time around Crowley - she’s gone, and so are all the other angels. And Crowley is still kneeling in the middle of the grass, gasping for breath he doesn’t need, eyes still tightly closed.

* * *

Crowley’s barely aware of the world around him; his throat is blistered, burning, and it’s all he can do to remind Aziraphale that that’s what _ needs to happen_, that he can’t destroy Crowley and return to Heaven without actually _ destroying _Crowley, without being prepared to force holy steel through the tender layers of flesh that contain his demonic essence. 

“You thwart,” he prompts, forcing the words past the damage, keeping his eyes firmly closed. He may have accepted his fate, for Aziraphale’s sake, but that doesn’t mean he wants to see it coming.

He does wish Aziraphale would hurry up about it, though. The searing pain in his throat - his corporation rapidly approaching the point of failure, and there’s no point in trying to heal himself now, is there, when the sword is about to swing again? - makes everything around him sound like the thud of his pulse in his ears, like the rattling of the wind as he expels it from his lungs and, on the in-breath, finds the air wet. He can hear Aziraphale’s voice, far away, like a wordless song his heart will always beat in time to, except that he’s fairly certain it won’t be beating at all for much longer. He barely registers the sudden drop in Holiness as the rest of the Host vanish; he _ does _hear the clang of the sword as it hits the ground, and then there’s a hand at his throat.

He hisses, because he can’t scream, and he writhes against the fingers pressing firmly into blistered skin, and then, as the pain drops away, he goes very still. He holds himself rigid, Aziraphale’s hand still close enough to his windpipe to make his breath stutter, and waits for more information, waits to know if this is mercy or simply a reprieve before the final blow.

“You did it, Crowley, you did so well, I’m sorry-”

“Did-” He swallows again, with difficulty, his throat bobbing against the angel’s hand. “Did what?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you- it was the only way- and the sword, I forgot it was-”

“Angel.” He means to ask him to explain himself, to start at the beginning and set out the situation so that it makes sense, but he doesn’t get any further as his own thoughts crowd in. 

Aziraphale betrayed him for Heaven- now he seems to be betraying Heaven to help him- he doesn’t understand. Heaven will be angry, they’ll be furious with Aziraphale if they realise he hasn’t finished the job. They won’t take him back. It will all have been for nothing.

“Just make it quick,” he mumbles, “if you’re going to do it.”

“Make-? _ Crowley. _I’m not going to hurt you.”

“‘S all right. I know how important Heaven is to you.”

“Oh, _ fuck _ Heaven! Here, I’m taking you home.” And before he can process that, there’s a dizzying sensation of moving, and it’s too much on top of everything else, and Crowley decides that since it would be utterly unbefitting a demon of his reputation to pass out, he’s going to take a spontaneous nap instead.

* * *

Crowley is unconscious. Aziraphale should have known better - he should have remembered that the sword was holy - he and Crowley have held each other at bladepoint before, over the years, always for show, and he’d foolishly thought that feeling the flat of his sword might even tip his demon off - but the blade was holy, he’d _ burned _Crowley, and he’d had to wait for Michael to agree to his terms before he dared to heal him.

Now Crowley’s unconscious, and Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s going to tell him when he wakes up. How he can explain himself. How he can begin to tell him that he’d counted on his submission in a life-threatening situation, that he’d _ engineered _ that situation and still been utterly stunned when Crowley really, truly gave up, went to his knees beneath the blade without so much as a struggle, without so much as a word in his own defence. He hadn’t expected him to fight back, of course - he would never have risked this if he had, he knows Crowley would rather discorporate than hurt him - but he’d never expected _ that_. He’d thought he might protest, when he realised the blade was blessed; he might flee, or launch into one of those fantastically convoluted _ speeches _ of his to persuade him to reconsider. Honestly, he’d been afraid that Crowley would decide to go _ through _some unsuspecting member of the angelic host, taking out a random angel or three to make himself a space to run.

Crowley had looked at him, inscrutable behind his glasses, and he had surrendered. Immediately, without question or argument. He had simply turned to Aziraphale and waited for destruction.

Aziraphale doesn’t know if he can fix what’s happened. He doesn’t know if he can fix _ them_.

* * *

Crowley wakes on the couch in the backroom of the bookshop, and Aziraphale is waiting for him.

“Angel,” he smiles, and then everything that’s happened comes rushing back to him. “You’re not in Heaven?”

“Wh- no, of course not. What a question, Crowley, honestly-”

“Sorry.” He’s not sure what Aziraphale’s cross about, but he seems genuinely affronted. “Ngk. Did I mess it up for you?”

“Did _ you-?_ Crowley, I have a lot to explain and a lot to apologise for, so would you mind shutting up and letting me get on with it?” That’s confusing, so Crowley merely sits up properly and shrugs as if to say _ go ahead_.

Aziraphale takes a moment, and then he begins to pace.

“I should have found a way to warn you, but I knew if they caught me it wouldn’t work, so… so I ambushed you, and I’m sorry for going behind your back, and I’m _ especially _sorry for forgetting about the sword. I should never have touched you with it.”

“Should have touched me harder,” Crowley disagrees, “if you were planning to k-”

“I _ wasn’t _ planning to kill you, please stop talking, your throat-”

“‘S fine. You fixed it.” But he falls silent at Aziraphale’s furious glare.

“I wasn’t planning to kill you,” the angel repeats sternly, “I was trying to keep you safe. I just… well, I did the wrong thing, as usual- do _ not _ tell me I can’t do the wrong thing, I endangered you and I betrayed you and I _ hurt _ you and I’m sorry.”

Crowley is silent, though it pains him, for nearly a full minute before Aziraphale realises what the problem is.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Crowley, you can talk now.”

“How exactly did pulling a sword and surrounding me with angels seem like a good idea, if you _ didn’t _want to kill me?” And Crowley believes that, actually, even if he can’t follow the logic.

“I told Michael you weren’t a threat. That you wouldn’t attack me if your life depended on it. And she, er, she had me prove it.”

“You… wait. Why were you talking to Michael in the first place? They said they’d back off, they’ve got no right to be hassling you-”

“I went to them.” Aziraphale looks very embarrassed, now. “They never said they’d leave _ you _ alone.”

“So… they told you to kill me, to get back in?”

“They said _ they _ would, if you posed any sort of threat. And I said of course you didn’t, not to me, and they made me prove it.”

Crowley plays back everything Aziraphale’s said, slowly. _ You wouldn’t attack me if your life depended on it. _

“You bet my life that I wouldn’t defend myself against a holy sword?”

“If it was me holding it, yes.”

“How could you- I’m a _ demon-_ I could have defended myself. Could have killed you!”

“You didn’t, though.” Aziraphale doesn’t look particularly pleased about being right. “You just gave up.”

“I- well, I was outnumbered-”

“That’s never stopped you. You could at least have argued, Crowley-”

“What, begged for my life in front of all those angels, is that what you wanted?”

“You could have tried to talk me out of it- Crowley, you just- you just stood there and waited to die. You _ told _me to thwart you. Why would you do that?”

“What was the point of arguing? You’d - I thought you’d made up your mind. I thought you’d chosen them.”

“And that was a good enough reason to throw your whole existence away?” It’s sarcasm, at first, but Crowley doesn’t protest and he can see the moment Aziraphale realises he's hit the nail on the head. “Oh, _ Crowley._”

“You know- it’s always been us. The two of us, against- against everything. It’s always been that, for me. And then-”

“Crowley-”

“It was… just a moment’s weakness. It’s not… I’m not that pathetic. Besides, you needed it. To get back in.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale reaches out and takes his glasses from him, so gently, which is when Crowley realises he’s taken them off and has been twisting them in his hands for some time now. “Let’s not break these. Can we get something straight here?”

“I know. You didn’t want to kill me.”

“You _ never _ give up, do you hear me? I don’t care _what_ happens to _ me,_ Crowley, you have to be here. You- without you, what hope would humanity have? What hope would _ I _have?”

“What am I without you?” Crowley fires back, “what the bloody _ Somewhere _ would I do without you-?”

And then Aziraphale’s lips are on his, his hands on Crowley’s cheeks, shifting almost instantly to his hair, and Crowley doesn’t know what he’ll do when the kiss ends, what he’ll _ be _when Aziraphale’s lips are no longer on his, because he’s wanted this so much and now, after such heartbreak, he’s finally getting it. Is this his punishment, this conflicted swirl of feelings inside him? Is this his reward for some good deed he doesn’t remember doing?

He pulls back, relieved to find that the world doesn’t stop spinning as they break apart after all.

“I have to- I just- it’s not that- ngk.”

He snatches up his glasses from where they lie forgotten on Aziraphale’s knee, and then he runs from the bookshop. He slams himself into the driver’s seat of the Bentley, waiting faithfully outside, and breaks his own land speed record on the way out of London, screaming out his frustration all the way.

* * *

Aziraphale sits in his bookshop and thinks about what a colossal mistake he’s made.

Of course he shouldn’t have gambled with Crowley’s safety - not that he would ever have actually hurt him, not that he would have let anyone _ try _ \- but Crowley had trusted him, and he'd betrayed that trust. He meant what he said; without Crowley, he doesn't know what he'd do. Now, thanks to his own stupidity, he might have to find out. But Crowley is safe. Crowley will _ continue _ to be safe.

It’s only now, when it’s all over, that he realises just how monumentally badly the confrontation in the park could have gone. It’s only now that he realises he really _ did _ bet Crowley’s life on the demon doing something incredibly stupid.

As far as Crowley was concerned, Aziraphale had betrayed him in the park. If Crowley had turned on _ him,_ surrounded him with demons and held a cursed blade to his throat, wouldn’t _ he _ have felt angry? Wouldn’t he have felt justified in lashing out, in fighting back? And Aziraphale had put Crowley in that situation, had staked the demon’s continued existence on his not doing that. Even _ he _hadn’t really expected Crowley’s complete surrender; it had unnerved him, if he was honest with himself. He had expected Crowley to try to defend himself, even though he knew he’d never hurt him. But if he had - if he’d even thrown his arms over his head to block a blow, if he’d raised a hand to snap his fingers and get out of there - Aziraphale didn’t know what Michael would have done. What she might have taken as an attack, or a threat.

He had nearly got Crowley _destroyed._ And then, as if he had any right, he had kissed him.

He has very, very definitely messed up.

* * *

Crowley screeches once around the M25 - it takes him about ten minutes - and turns back towards the shop. He doesn’t do well with emotions at the best of times, and now there are far too many churning away inside him, but he has to go back.

Aziraphale betrayed him. The confrontation in the park - he could have handled it, if it had been the only way Aziraphale felt he could protect him. Even the horrific burning sensation in his throat had been short-lived, and he could have handled it. He could have… but Aziraphale had gone behind his back. He’d gone to _ Heaven_, behind his back, after everything Crowley had done to try to keep him safe. He’d risked all of that, and he hadn’t warned Crowley, hadn’t discussed the plan with him in advance - he hadn’t even told him he was _ worried _about Heaven coming after him. He’d just blindsided him with half the Host, and the Archangel Michael, and a holy blade at his throat.

And then, even as he’d apologised, he’d started telling Crowley off - telling him he _ should _have resisted, should have tried to fight off the one being in his whole existence that he had trusted implicitly and even loved - and then he had kissed him. It was everything Crowley had wanted for so long, and it was too much. On top of everything else-

“You went too fast for me, angel,” he tells the empty Bentley, as he pulls up outside the bookshop once more. “You just went too fast.”

Then he pulls himself together, and walks back in.

* * *

Aziraphale jumps at the sound of the shop bell.

“We’re closed,” he calls, wishing he’d taken the time to lock the door after Crowley left.

“Angel?” It’s a tentative sort of question, but Aziraphale hears it and his heart jumps in his chest.

“Back here,” he calls back, and Crowley appears in the back room as if drawn by a magnet. “Crowley, I’m sorry-”

But Crowley strides across the space and takes him in his arms, holds him tight and presses a kiss to his forehead, and it’s not what Aziraphale wants right now but it’s what he needs, what he has so desperately needed since the moment Crowley walked out.

“I forgive you, angel, but you’ve got to never do that again.” Crowley closes his eyes. “I thought- I really thought you’d chosen Heaven.”

“Never. I’d never- I should have spoken to you before I went near them, but I… well, I’m not used to making my own plans. I don’t think I’ve quite got the hang of it yet.”

“We make the plans now,” Crowley tells him firmly, “but we make them together.”

“Yes. Quite. Oh, Crowley, your poor neck-”

“Fine now,” Crowley insists, tipping his head back so he can see, “thought I was a goner then, thou- ah.”

Aziraphale hardly realises he’s moving until his lips are pressed against the smooth, unscarred skin of Crowley’s throat, just where the blade had burned him. He feels Crowley swallow, hard, and backs off in a hurry - he has no right to kiss Crowley, to make him feel vulnerable in the presence of someone who has so recently betrayed him. But Crowley just lowers his chin, yellow-gold eyes opening to meet Aziraphale’s.

“Yes,” Crowley says, as if Aziraphale has asked him a simple question, as if Aziraphale has asked him anything at all, and then he moves in to brush their lips together again.

“I’m sorry-” It’s barely a whisper as they break apart, but Crowley shakes his head.

“You were protecting me. Thank you. But in future we talk.”

“Yes-” He’s ready to talk, there and then, but it seems that Crowley has other plans for his lips, and he is quite happy to give over control to the demon now daring careful, exploratory licks into his mouth.

They’ll talk about future plans later. For now, Aziraphale lets himself be backed up against a bookcase and thoroughly, lovingly kissed.


End file.
